


I'll Scratch Back

by Jinjo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Camping, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hollywood, Kidnapping, Many A Curse Word, Mayhem, Original Character(s), Other, Road Trip, Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7845919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinjo/pseuds/Jinjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat and Roadhog's crime spree extends into California, where their warpath crosses with one Ana Amari. Strong personalities collide as the aging bounty hunter wrangles the junkers, and for better or worse they learn something about one another in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for stumbling across and reading my very first published fan fiction! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> The tumblr: www.overgosh.tumblr.com

A chorus of shattering glass brings the heist to a sharp crescendo. Here’s the two crime spree fiends on a tear through the city, and their images are unmistakable: one immense masked brute, one a bandy gibbering maniac. They both smell like petrol and metal, and they sound like hell. Junkrat stuffs handful after robotic handful of jewels into his satchel like pieces of saltwater taffy. His piercing giggles intermingle with the tinkling of smashed display cases. In his other hand, he’s got a loose hold on some kind of detonator covered in colorful duct tape and flashing red in his oil-stained grip. 

“Why all the long faces?” He quips, practically shouting over the sound of Roadhog tearing apart the place with his scrap gun. Junkrat whips around as though he’s expecting an answer to his rhetorical question and he’s met with blank, puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. His wide mouth stretches into an exaggerated frown. “C’mon now…” A handful of pearls are tossed into his motionless audience. “It’s a party!” Unable to stifle his laughter, the rat turns away with a sharp thwack to his robotic knee, which sounds off like a vibraslap and makes him cackle even harder. These clowns don’t know a good time when they see one.

A grunt from Roadhog reignites Junkrat’s purpose. He wiggles his detonator, teasing at his captive audience and switches roles with the big brute who pushes in front of him to enforce order of a sort. Whimpers go silent. All eyes are trained on the assortment of screws, twisted metal and other scrap that end up in the chamber of the deadly blaster, and are cast back down to the ground when it’s directed in slow sweeps between innocent heads. Without the constant crackling of Roadhog’s weapon, the cacophony in the shop has been reduced to the peal of sirens and the fluctuating chuckles of the other man loping back and forth through the aisles and practically sweeping up handfuls of glass with the rest of the fallen jewelry.

“Jee-sus!” Junkrat exclaims, and gingerly places his peg leg past the devastated body of an omnic guard. He couldn’t expect every “mission” of sorts to go off without a hitch, but L.A. had been quite accommodating so far. Shockingly thin security, easy blokes to rally and plenty of _bang_ for so little buck. No buck at all but twisted buckshot. “You didn’t need to go whole hog on this guy, eh?”

One of the guard’s arms is still smoking pathetically in the rubble. It finds its way into the junker’s paws after it’s been given a long sideways glance. He places his boot against the hole-riddled chestplate of the omnic and yanks it free with a great deal off effort. Immediately it seems to lose all remaining tension. With delight he gives it a jiggle, watches its fingers dangle as a result. A new-ish model, some wear on the joints. Junkrat fiddles with each digit, rubbing the rough pads of his still in-tact hand against the metal plating still warm from the firefight. Nice as it was, any ‘bot that stood up against Roadhog’s fury had the constitution of tissue paper. It was one of his bodyguard’s most valuable qualities.

“What are you doing?” Roadhog’s voice is a low bellow. It carries.

In response, the slighter man lifts the arm above his head and gives his partner a comical wave. “Just havin’ a bit of fun. Don’t worry, ya big brute.”

“We’re not here for ‘bots.” It’s a warning. Roadhog passes a hard glance through the front door and focuses on the noise outside. The breath behind his mask is starting to taste stale, and he knows they’ve been in one place for too long. They’ve got other plans. Bigger plans. No use getting caught up on the small fries. Not to mention, this was practically an impulse stop. They’d just finished robbing the nearby bank. “Time to go.”

Junkrat steels, a bit crestfallen, but soon he’s taking up the rest of his loot and peering over the remains of the aisles to scavenge anything he may have missed. As though summoned by Roadhog’s forewarning, the gentle tear of sirens filters through the doors. Sobs – of relief? Panic? – begin again, shortly stifled by a heavy kick from the enforcer and an equally weighty “Shut up.” None the less, he looks around, only shifting his neck to peer at his companion through the opaque portholes in his mask. Roadhog takes a step backwards – strafes around the counter– feels his hand twitching for the sinister hook at his side. If anything is to go wrong, it’s going to go much worse for everyone else. With his focus on the movement in the front of the store, it’s a welcome relief when Junkrat calls. It’s a reedy bleat of “Let’s blow this joint!” with a self-satisfied cackle. Roadhog simply nods.

The two waste no time busting through the back door, slamming open the exit into a world screaming with sirens. Junkrat grins at the sound, while Roadhog’s expression – while indiscernible – carries through with the way he yanks Junkrat up by the back of his shorts with a brusque heft and deposits him in the sidecar of his waiting motorcycle. “Hey!” The smaller man yelps, but as soon as the engine revs to life he seems to forget his slight and nestles in among his loot. He’s practically bathing in jewelry and mounds of fresh cash, sitting in his little basin with a clownish smile.

“Now?” He squeaks, looking up confident that the answer would be what he’s so obviously anticipating. Roadhog is not a man of many words. Once again, a nod and a partial grunt obscured by the roar of his bike is all that Junkrat needs. He bites his lip, draws in his legs. Instinctively his prosthetic arm reaches around himself, bracing for impact. He squeezes, feels the shaking of his body, flips the safety cap on his detonator, wills as much gusto into his thumb as he can and presses the switch.

More damage, more casualties, more distractions. Junkrat always had a flavor for chaos, and while his long-term (or frankly, even short-term) planning skills were often at the whim of impulse, his ruthless desire for pyrotechnics was… Useful, sometimes. Often annoying. Always dangerous for either party. At least this time he’d had the decency to wait until they were outside.

Roadhog’s bike leaves a blazing calling card on the dirty asphalt behind the boutique. He peers over his shoulder before they turn the corner, and as expected there’s the blurry slash of a billowing, angry cloud. Drifting into the smoggy skyscape, black innards unfurling into bleary grey wisps and joining the bleary Californian heavens. The constructed, artificially blue veneer is all Hollywood magic. The state of the sky is grey and tinged with amber, gasoline and fire. Though, no horizon could burn as brightly as Australia on a day like this. The smell of burning rubber, metal, sweat and grit – they’re all borrowed from there: from the omnium, from Junkertown. From the glory of the Liberation Front, which changed the world forever. His world. Goddamnit. There’s that homesickness again. Roadhog presses his fingers into the grips and his knuckles pale. Years of travel will do that to anyone. He misses the open road, the barbed paths to the Outback. The fear that radiated from the core to Sydney. Yearning for an irradiated hellhole is pushing common sense. Roadhog would prefer to keep his mind intact, for his sake and his partner’s. Fortunately it’s easy for him to pull his attention away from his thoughts when their arrest is imminent and the streets of uptown L.A. are packed with civilians.

The back alleys and broken roads behind the shop lead directly to a major traffic artery, and it’s getting the Hog’s heart pumping. The silent semblance of restraint he showed back in the boutique are beginning to crumble as they plunge into dangerous waters. They’re expected – both of them know it, and it’s plain as day in the smoky streets, police lights filtering through the haze. Roadhog snorts and cackles through his mask. With one hand, he fumbles for a gas canister and loads it into his respirator. Fumes flood into him, filling his nostrils. Opening his throat and nose, and he inhales in heavy guttural gasps like he’s breathing for the first time. Junkrat’s giggling from the sidecar, already loading a full clip of cherry-red bombs into his grenade launcher. “Let’s light ‘em up!”

Roadhog is seeing in full Technicolor. He’s just about ready to load up and go wild again when he spots the barricades. There’s the exit. Luminous black and yellow and a line of Kevlar-clad police forces, human and omnic, line up behind the barrier with guns drawn. A crooked smile stretches the wicked stitching of his mask. Good thing he’s set up shop for this. Roadhog begins to laugh, full, sloppy chuckles, and his hand crosses over to the sinister crank set-up on the front of his bike. No, set up on his scrap gun on the front of his bike. The barrier is weak, and the forces set up behind it are practically lined up for target practice. Huge hands turn the crank, and it’s like an organ grinder playing off to a horror show. They scatter. Junkrat laughs – with the familiar plucky “ka-chunk! Ka-chunk!” of his grenade launcher, chaos erupts in a flash. Gunfire begins, but as soon as it does the two plow through the barriers like they’re nothing and ride through the scattered shrapnel and flames that they wreak as they pass. Shortly after skipping and weaving onto the speedway, Roadhog’s goddamn crank falls apart. It’s like it’s built to crumble, and he doesn’t mind at all. He tosses the scraps that fall off of his gun back in the barrel and shoots without hesitation at the window of a chase car that manages to catch up to them.

“Fuck, Rat. They got back-up.” The mercenary grumbles. It’s more of an instruction to his companion than anything, and immediately the younger man twists around in his seat and gets a good view at their interceptors.

“Right! I’m on it.” He smirks with confidence, turning to Roadhog with a thumb sticking up in the air. His expression freezes. “Hog! You’re shot, mate!”

At this point, Roadhog becomes aware of how slick his side is. He snorts and palms Junkrat’s face with his hand, pointing his head back in the direction of the interceptors. “Focus.”

With something akin to half a screech and half a grumble, Junkrat whips back around. He’s lost a bit of his constitution, seeing Roadhog like that. The unplanned heist may have been the cherry on top of their score, but they’re paying for it now in this rough escape. There are three cars now, closing in tight pursuit, but the path is otherwise clear. A helicopter has just appeared over the smoky horizon. Screeching of cars blurs together like the view. “We got fliers, ‘n three in the back! I gotta use the tire!”

“Don’t waste it!”  
  
“Ain’t no choice, Hog!” Junkrat yelps as he hefts the huge tire onto the wall of the sidecar – an awkward weight and size, not to mention the two hurdling down the road at high speed.  One of the spikes is pressed uncomfortably into the nook of his peg leg as he fiddles with the positioning, and finally takes firm grasp of the cord. “Let ‘er rip!” His sinewy arm snaps backwards and the engine in the tire all but combusts with furious energy. It bounces out over the sidecar and wobbles uncertainly in the road for a moment, but then its path becomes true. Slipping under the chassis of one of the cars, the tire finds its mark. Junkrat smiles with glee. An immense fireball – the first car jerks up into the sky like it’s nothing, underside showing a jagged, melted hole. Shrapnel manages to puncture the tires of the other squad car, and the third has to veer to avoid getting crushed by the flying barrier that comes crashing down on its hood as it falls. The target car rolls once, twice, three times. As flimsy and expendable as a tin can.

“Damn, that almost beat my record.” Junkrat grumps, before seeming to realize something. His lips part, he giggles. He thinks better of nudging Roadhog while he's driving, but raises his voice for the man to hear him. “I’d call that a HOLE IN ONE! Aah—shit!”

The urgent thrums of the helicopter pulse through the air stronger than ever. Even more alarming is the rapid gunfire emerging from the open side of the vehicle. Junkrat winces and drops his head, curling as tight as he can into the sidecar. “Damnit! Can’t fit all the way in here!” He squeales. “Hog, I can’t frag that thing with that bastard shootin’ me to hell!”

Little help could be offered for their warpath – the roads of the populous city were well marked and controlled. One couldn’t shoot off into the post-apocalyptic bush. The upside of their trip – publicity, big hauls – was also the downside. Roadhog chalks it up to Hollywood glitz as he racks his brain for an escape route. In an instant he feels a sting in his back and grunts with stifled pain. There’s a helicopter to contend with. Roadhog flares his nostrils, fueled by adrenaline, and rears up on his bike. They’re just close enough now. Just close enough.

He grabs something from behind him and twists it in his palm. The handle of his deadly hook rests there, hungry, and it’s as of yet unblemished and unused. With a tilt of his head, he appraises the distance. Throws it with a deadly arc somewhere between a shot-put and a javelin. It’s not a perfect hit, but it hooks the gunner around the thigh. There’s a visible response as the man recoils, reaches for his unarmored leg. When he yanks the chain back in, the weapon’s devilish nails catch. He’s stunned, and it’s just enough. He’s toppled and Roadhog watches him fall. _Grounded._ Roadhog’s mask is starting to fog up as his laughter becomes labored, ragged and sore. The chain is still caught, dragging behind him for a moment before it disengages. Roadhog wheels it back in, sated, and gropes around for a canister of gas without avail. In the distance, he hears Junkrat’s wavering voice, still cheery, but his face is contorted into sudden worry. The young man goes from zero to ten. “Hey—hey, Roadie! Hey, you alright?”

“Shoot… The chopper.”

“Right! Right!”

Roadhog focuses on his trajectory as chaos reigns behind him. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. He takes a sharp turn off the interstate and plummets down the road. Bellowing towards the boonies, away from Hollywood cover. They leave curling pulls of smoke and the remnants of sirens. Full speed ahead. Roadhog realizes that it’s wildfire season. He’s drawn to the flames. The sky will turn a deep orange tonight before the sun disappears over California’s rolling golden-green summer hills. A burning reminder that time still turns in the wake of destruction, and it’s all the confirmation that the junker needs. Northward bound on the road, blazing up the trail to the checkpoint. Junkrat said he knew a guy, somewhere in the mountains. So long as he could be “persuaded” not to turn them in for the sizeable monetary reward, he was the best bet they had for now. Easy as pie. Roadhog coughs, and tastes metal.

“Well, that was heaps of fun, wannit, Roadie?” Inquires Junkrat. He’s nursing some shattered metal interfacing on his robotic arm – thankfully one of his only injuries during the scrape. “You need some sweet lovin’ care while ya drive? I’ve got both arms this time!” He holds up his fingers and wiggles them at his driver, who could or could not be looking at him in his mirrors. Could have grabbed that spare arm back there for some support, but where would he have put it? Coulda thrown it at the coppers, he could have. Roadhog grunts.

“Get me a can. Already stopped bleeding. Will deal with it when we stop.” He instructs. He gestures to his pack vaguely with his fat ringed fingers and brings his hand back to rest. Heavy on the handlebars.

“You said it, big guy.” He responds, voice too low to hear over the throbbing motor of the bike, but his intention is clear in shuffling through Roadhog’s pack. Doing so is almost as dangerous as putting one’s hand in a bag of mousetraps. Junkrat switches to his metal hand for good measure and procures a dented canister from within. His face falls. “Looks like we’re gonna hafta stock up. This is the last one.”

“What?” Roadhog just about stops the bike, his voice dangerously raised. What little hair remains on Junkrat’s scorched neck stands up on end just hearing his voice, and the force from the bike lurching causes him to jerk forward in his seat. The deep hacking that follows punctuates his bodyguard’s efforts. With a cautious half-smile, Junkrat lifts up the canister in offering. Roadhog shakes his head and clutches his fingers until his knuckles whiten. “Put it away.” He snarls, and his companion does – quietly.

It’s a dance of leading and following. Junkrat and Roadhog are corded together in their exploits, inseparable. Not to mention worth more in reward money caught together than apart, a testament to their hold on each other. Junkrat still causes tension with his flair for the dramatic, the need to be on top, to prove himself. But it’s a tolerable sort of quirkiness. At this point just as quaint as it is annoying. Junkrat knows his limits now.

Sitting tight in the sidecar, Junkrat’s leg and peg are splayed awkwardly as ever. He’s fiddling with their loot and taking stock of their remaining weapons. There’s always an abundance of scrap, but he recognizes that he needs to construct a new Riptire as soon as he can get his mitts on the supplies. He still has plenty of frags, and nothing on his person is severely damaged. Junkrat relaxes a bit. His hands shift to tinkering – a useful pastime – and his mind shifts to reminiscing. Roadhog’s state has him on edge. There’s plenty of reason to be afraid of the man formerly known as Mako Rutledge. Gas for the Hog goes at the top of the grocery list. The thought is on a loop as Junkrat tries to stitch a gash on his forearm sustained by his riptire’s final voyage. Combined with the constant thrum of the motorcycle, everything turns to static.

 

-

Months Ago. Or has it been a year?

  
It’s a stand-off, a siege. Junkrat scrambles against Roadhog, stuffing himself against the large man’s body as tightly as he can to avoid gunfire and the shattering glass roaring from explosive bottles raining from above. They’re hiding behind a downed truck which is turned on its side, hugging them in the nook between the container and the dented cab. Junkrat’s out of bombs, scrabbling, pupils pinpoints.

“You’ve gotta have somethin’ else in here, mate. Somethin’ to get ‘em off of us!” Junkrat fumbles in Hog’s satchel, and the enforcer growls.

“No. Just wait.” Roadhog replied. He tries to get a hold on the younger man squirming below, grunting with mounting frustration as Junkrat goes for his pack. “I said _wait_.” 

“Christ, what’m I payin’ you for anyway? What’s this? Hey, this could work!”

“What are you doing?” Roadhog can barely see through his thoroughly greasy mask. Junkrat’s rigging something. A realization. He reaches out to intercept him. It’s too late.

“Bomb’s away!” The smaller man cheers. There’s a few screams in the distance as one of Roadhog’s gas canisters erupts, and now Junkrat and Roadhog are bolting for their lives. When they finally get to safety, Junkrat finds one enormous hand wrapping around his neck. Sometimes, he forgets that his bodyguard is huge. Inhumanly strong. He’s gasping twisted breaths, rattling from his lungs and throat. Pulling Rat up until the toe of his shoe is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. His mask is so close that the smell of it makes him nauseous, but his throat is shut too tight to gasp or gag. Through the portholes he can see the dim glint of Roadhog’s eyes.

“Never do that again.”

Junkrat manages a strangled squeak. “Y-yeah! N-never --!” He hits the ground and crumples as his bodyguard walks away.

“I’m doing a perimeter check.” Deliberately, Roadhog palms one of his canisters and shoves it against his mask. Lesson learned. No need for further action.

-

 

The two junkers roll up to an isolated wooded cabin, Junkrat snapping out of his daydreaming all at once and now all business. “Sit tight, Roadie. I’ll check this out.” He doesn’t want to agitate the man. Roadhog picks at the caked-on blood around his side and stomach and emits something near a yielding sigh. Meanwhile, Junkrat is on the move. He vaults over the sidecar and stretches his arms above him, taking in the fresh, warm standing air around them.

They’ve driven long enough into the mountains that the atmosphere has hushed. The road is a distant echo only when a huge lumber truck rushes past, and birdsong promises and invites some undeserved sense of serenity. It’s a jarring change from the rolling open asphalt. Growths of ferns cut into the small dirt offshoot, winding and narrow with homes few and far between. Verdant underbrush has taken over most of the offroad points of interest, with old and underused trail markers as elusive as the road itself. It’s fresh here, mossy and filled with green life. Small white and purple flowers peek up from the shade. The scent of the earth draughts just over the overwhelming pungency that the junkers produce.

“Well-p!” Junkrat proclaims. He’s at the front door of the tiny cabin now, pacing back and forth between the half-boarded up front windows and the side walls where ivy has mounted its ascent. “He ain’t here. Plum good for us, though! He’s a little squeamish with blood…” Junkrat can’t take his comment seriously, and gives his thigh a hearty slap to accompany his cackling. “If I remember right... The key’s over here… Stay put!”

Past the ivy and a tarp-covered woodpile around the side of the plain dingy white cabin there’s a dilapidated old greenhouse. A tree has half-crushed a corner of it, and a few of its roof panels have fallen in. It’s a sad, crumpled shape – gauzy and tinged with the green that seems to be all-consuming in the wilderness. Junkrat slinks against the wall and suddenly realizes that he’s surrounded. His heart leaps. It flutters, falls back into place. His back flattens against the wall and he feels the rough touch of plaster and a coat of ivy. It tickles his bare back, reaches around him. Junkrat yelps and backs into a fern-- ankle caught in the fiddles. Monolithic trees cast dappled green spotlights onto his forehead and chest, and he lifts his arms to shade himself fruitlessly. He can’t remember for the life of him when they arrived, when everything was closing in. His gaze flicks between the canopy and he knows someone is here. One, maybe two, maybe more. Junkrat lowers. His hand reaches for a gun that he’s left behind, then fumbles as he lowers himself closer to the ground. Short, silent breaths and twitches of his neck ensure that every nook and cranny in the woods is identified. Once, twice, more. His jaw locks tight. Can’t be too careful for snip—

“AAH!”

Junkrat starts with a shriek as the back of his head slaps against Roadhog’s huge gut. He winces and reels forward, putting his face in his palms and rubbing deep into his eyesockets. “Fuck’s sake, Hog, I nearly pissed myself!” He rants, but the quaking of his shoulders is quickly stopped by a large hand. Immobilized, he takes a deep exhale through his nose instinctually.

“You’ve been gone for a while.” He explains. “Figured somethin’ was up.” Roadhog gives his shoulders a squeeze and puts out his hand. Junkrat grants Roadhog a weak snort-laugh and allows himself to be helped up. He’s still wobbly on his peg, but with Roadhog in tow it’s quick work to gain entrance to the greenhouse. Junkrat steps carefully through the door and holds a hand up to Roadhog. “Booby traps, lots of ‘em I’m sure. Leave this to Dr. Boom.”

He shoots Roadhog a wink which he is enthusiastically positive is received with an eyeroll. The lean man slips away. Approximately a minute later there’s a (minor) explosion. Two minutes later, a screech. Three, and Junkrat reappears with a healthy swagger, a (minor) burn on his still-in-tact leg, and the dumbest grin in the world. He’s also got a single key on a ring that he’s swinging on his finger. “Doc-tor Boom.” Junkrat boasts.

Shortly after, the two make their exhausted entrance into the cabin. Junkrat’s bravado has faded to only a stir of occasional whimsy, and Roadhog’s breath is peppered with faint coughs. Upon first glance, the cabin is exactly what the doctor (or lack thereof) ordered. Plain, sparse, a hideout. To the immediate right of the entrance is a kitchen with horrendous olive green laminate tiling and a dark brown table that’s clearly been stained to death to hide something or other. Every surface of the counters, walls and ceiling have suffered some spill or stab wound. Thick, patterned curtains are drawn up around the thin windows of the room, and while abandoned there are still traces of life – dishes left astray, trash can half-full and fragrant. The opposite room is a den that connects to the humble bedroom – equally loud in its goldenrod furnishings and carpentry, with a wood-fire stove and a couple of taxidermy elk heads ogling at the two from the walls. Another foldable table and mismatched, lumpy couch and chairs. Entertainment seems to be restricted to cards, knife sharpening and drinking around the fire, which seems par for the course. Junkrat inspects the musty bathroom and bedroom before returning. His eyes meet Roadhog’s enormous back as he looms over the kitchen sink, having shed his stained clothes. It hits him now how much blood there is. Was. Is.

“I-I’ll grab you a towel.” Junkrat stutters and hops away, returning just in time to hear the metallic plink of a shell dropping into the sink and rattling to a lazy stop. Roadhog glances sideways at him to take the cloth. His mask is pulled half-way up. He’s visibly shaking on each exhale. Junkrat’s wandering eyes flicker across the bottom half of his bodyguard’s twisted, burn-slickened face. The muscular curve of his jaw disrupted by scar tissue, shrapnel marks prickling up and down his neck and cheekbones. Not to mention the significant chunk missing from his lips and nose. The way his huge teeth make permanent display and his nostril is flayed to the cartilage echo his moniker.

“What are you staring at?” Outside of the mask his voice is less distorted, but has the same gravel texture. Roadhog snatches the towel and rocks his head forward to cover his jaw with the respirator. Junkrat scratches his forehead, taps his peg on the floor. Uncomfortable. Junkrat is not exactly a caretaker.

“You need anythin’? Or I’m gonna go secure the loot.”

“Go.”

Junkrat doesn’t need any additional prompting. He limps off to begin the transport of their ill-gotten goods as Roadhog back to the sink. “The hell,” Junkrat bemoans. “Get shot a few times and get all snippy…” He mumbles to himself.

His mood, however, immediately changes as he handles the goods. For the trouble it caused, it’s a nice haul. Junkrat toys with a few bracelets, wrapping them around his skinny wrists and puckering his lips with a self-satisfied sneer. He knows a real, quality diamond when he sees one. Good metals of all kinds, good cuts, all of that hoity-toity garbage. It’s a scavenger’s trade to pick out the good stuff – though granted the handfuls of glass that Junkrat sifts through with his metal hand were a pick of necessity rather than choice. He prides himself as a junker, a keen-eyed tradesperson to boot. He’s made something of himself, hasn’t he? Damn well showed them. Junkrat grins and strings long tendrils of gold around his fingers, soft and cool, and plays with them as he transfers all of the crisp bills from the bank in fat stacks. Purring over treasure in the bedroom comes to an abrupt end when he hears his name.

Roadhog is now sitting at the table, his girth spilling out from either side of the meager chair. He’s got his arms braced in front of him, his back bared. “I can’t reach the last one.”

Sure enough, that’s a bullet hole. Junkrat blinks once. “You sure that ain’t a mole?”

“I’m sure. You’ve gotta get it out. Stuff’s on the counter.”

Junkrat crosses towards the sink. “Fine, fine.” He waves his hand about and scratches the fine un-scorched hairs on his chin with his metal fingertips. “Don’t make it weird this time.”

 

-

 

He hates falling asleep. Being prone, vulnerable, the hurt finally catching up to him. The static is back. It creeps through his legs and arms and Junkrat lays still to consider the sensation before he shifts his right shoulder and thigh to remind his body that there’s nothing there. In the dim, he opens his palm, thumbs callouses that have made home between his fingers. Exposed fingers dirty, hands clammy, grungy and pale from where his glove sat. Radiation bruised fingernails, with the top coat of dark polish chipped off almost entirely; it was something that the two hadn’t bothered to restock on their current spree. Junkrat instinctively grinds his teeth, jaw tensing up. It wouldn’t be long until he was chewing himself bloody again in this state. He was of a sorry sort. Not to mention Roadhog.

Junkrat shifts. The bed creaks wearily under him. Roadhog is breathing deeply, his bandaged torso rising and falling and nearly encroaching in the younger man’s space whenever he inhales. He’s probably awake too, but there’s no point in striking up a conversation. Frankly there’s usually never a point with Junkrat. This time, though, he feels just a smidge guilty for the beating Roadhog’s been through. Junkrat rolls onto his side. There’s a whole world to conquer out there, and here’s the two crime spree fiends tuckered out together in the middle of nowhere. After El Banco de Dorado and the crown jewels, small jobs couldn’t risk so much damage. Were they getting sloppy – sloppier than usual? With every score, large and small, there was influence to be had. Infamy. So long as Junkrat kept pushing the threat of being hunted under the weight of treasure, thrills and status, he would be fine. He had Roadhog. He would be fine. But he still couldn’t sleep. He would be fine. He watches as shadows from the trees creep in through the small crack in the curtains. Slowly shifting, as though they’re angling themselves to peek inside. Junkrat can’t remember taking his eyes off of them, nor can he remember falling asleep. Roadhog rises to sit on the edge of the bed. Well, how about that. It’s morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally chapter 2! Thank you so much for your patience. I was caught up on the task of making really meaty chapters and kept over analyzing when I really just needed to relax and write. So, nothing happened for a very long time. :( Lesson learned! I hope you enjoy!

“Did you sleep?” The question is rusty and resounding, with plenty of grogginess at its base. So Roadhog did get some shut-eye. His feet are planted heavy in the unfortunate shag carpeting, his back to Junkrat, arms bracing himself on the tops of his thighs. Junkrat looks back, his eyes drawing in and out of focus.

“No.” The sound of his own voice being pushed out his sandpaper throat is grating. He tries to clear away some of the knot and pops up nonetheless, refusing to be defeated by something as paltry as lack of shuteye. Junkrat balances on his arm, swinging his hips towards the edge of the mattress. The heel of his foot hits, tender and cushioned by the raggedy old carpeting, and then his toes test the waters. He’s still all in one piece. Well, since yesterday. Roadhog puts a hand on the nightstand, which groans under his grip. He hauls himself out of the bed and the loss of his weight seems to make the old frame rise a foot above its previous resting place at least.

“I’m getting your stuff.” Roadhog mumbles. His steps are tender, voice low and restrained. He practically creeps around the bed, and Junkrat looks at him with his head cocked, brows furrowed. “Hey, I don’t need your help—“ He begins, but his prostheses end up on the bed next to him before he can finish. Roadhog releases a short huff of breath that puffs out of his mask, and drops to the ground to sit in front of his companion.

Junkrat quietly observes. The haze of sleep deprivation has his eyes unfocusing again, and he scratches at his jaw to try and come back to his senses. Before Roadhog can take charge and actually help him put the damn things on, Junkrat reaches for his arm. Re-orienting himself is locker room stuff, but the fact that Roadhog is sitting there, staring at him, or through him for that matter with that mask of his, makes the dim green-tinted atmosphere in the shoddy cabin all the more unnerving. “What’s goin’ on?” Junkrat made an attempt to ask the question casually, trepidation sneaking in all the same. At least during the relative silence he had his prosthetics to focus on.

“I can’t risk leaving here. You have to go get more supplies. Soon. Today,” grumbles Roadhog. Junkrat thumbs the grimy port in his upper arm. He uses a part of the bedspread to clean up the dirt and rust around the connection point. He’d need more grease, too.

“Today?” He hummed. The anxiety of his tone was creeping through even as he occupied himself with attaching his damaged prosthetic, hissing when the nerve endings popped to life. “You can’t come with?”

His partner huffs. He reaches up under his mask to scratch the white, scraggly scruff that’s growing there. “No.”

Junkrat hides his concern well with the whine of annoyance that comes out of his mouth. After a long while he finally situates his arm. He flexes his metal fingers experimentally and drags his others through his patchy scalp. After a moment, something dawns on him. The grin that spreads across his face is shameless. He looks down at Roadhog (a rare feat, but managed with his position on the bed). “Means I get to ride the ‘hog,” 

Nothing in the world can stop Junkrat’s eyebrows from waggling, and he’s quickly met with a thick punch in the leg. With a yelp and a cackle, Junkrat rolls to the other side of the bed before Roadhog can deal any any additional damage. He takes his leg with him, clutching the mechanical creation to his chest like Roadhog will make off with it.

“Don’t let that get to your head, drongo – scratch the bike and you die. Put on your fucking leg.”

“Always teasin’ me!” Junkrat wails. He sets to work preparing his other limb. The arm was the hard part, the leg is easier. No shoulder-girdle port, no hot tension, crackling static, scattered nerves and expensive repairs. Just a peg to hobble and hop on. As he does so, Roadhog rises to his feet. His massive frame fills the doorway.

“I’ll be in the kitchen, planning. We’ll need to move out once you get back. Change our route, wire what we can and stow the rest.”

He tries to pick up the pace of putting his prosthesis on, but these things take time. As Roadhog turns his back and walks away from him, Junkrat’s eyes follow down his massive back. The bandages there are stained, multicolored, and there weren’t enough to cover the huge man’s body in the first place. This could be serious. In his mental fog he wonders if Roadhog would even bother to tell him if he was internally bleeding. He was already running out of gas. Junkrat’s fingers are trembling, and so a coarse string of colorful cursewords tumble from the bedroom as the man tries to fix himself up. His motor skills were impaired with the damage to his metal arm, and – “Fuck it all!”

Roadhog perks up from his place at the kitchen table as he hears a distant thump. He grunts, to the response of a reedy: “I’m okay!” And soon he’s back to poking at the box of crackers that he found in the cabinet. His partner eventually joins him, hoisting up his shorts by the belt and cinching himself in. He looks to have lost even more weight recently, given their itinerant path of destruction. Roadhog could probably grip him entirely around the waist.

“Eat something before you go,” He grunts. Roadhog slides the ever-so-slightly mouse-bitten box towards Junkrat, whose nose wrinkles and makes him look even more weaselly than before. He leans over to paw at the box, extracting the crinkly plastic wrapper and looking inside. “Better not be any rat shit in this,” He warns, though he’s already nibbling on a few. He’s not a big eater in general – Roadhog reaches for a canteen he’s brought with him and holds it up to the man. 

“Just tryin’ to keep you alive, boss,” He grunts, and after a moment’s hesitation Junkrat grabs the canteen from him and smushes up some of the flavorless crackers to down with the help of whatever nasty grog Roadhog brought with him. There’s a certain chord to ‘boss’ that makes Junkrat do as he’s told, ironically enough. The reminder that he’s something, he’s in charge, and he’s on the hook if anything happens to the two of them. Roadhog’s got enough power to last through the apocalypse – he’s secure enough to let the kid how he knows he’s always wanted to feel. Making someone feel like a damn person is the least he can do.

“What’s that look?” Junkrat smiles around the lip of the canteen, and immediately any tenderness that Roadhog was beginning to shed is retracted. He holds out a huge hand for the vessel and snatches it back, screwing on the cap and whipping around to get back to business. Junkrat frowns; he’s scrabbling up against ‘Hog’s back now, and yep – he’s starting to get annoying again. Roadhog slaps his palms down on the rickety table which wails in offense. He’s breathing ragged. It’s only now that Junkrat realizes the single can of gas has been sitting in eyeshot the whole time.

“R-right! I’ll be back before you know it, mate! You’ll be right in no time, or my name ain’t Jamison Fawkes III!”

As he scrambles out of the room, Roadhog listens for the sound of his footsteps. Foot, peg, foot, peg peg, foot – stumbling nonsense – foot, peg, door slam. He leans forward in his chair and releases a wheeze that sounds and smells bleak. Someone cracked open the tomb, and the air’s all bad. He supports his face with his head, lifting up the leathery snout of his mask. A viscous red tar drips in stringy beads onto the table. Roadhog wipes the corner of his mouth. The muffled roar of the motorcycle kicking up outside is some kind of grim reminder that he’s now completely alone. For once, the silence feels like death.

-

Supplies. Supplies. Junkrat’s not familiar with this area, his addled brain’s working a mile a minute and he’s going twice as fast down the winding forest roads. Blurred trees cast shattered rays of light, making time seem to go frame by frame. A few screeching turns and near-misses along the road aren’t even enough for the wild man to slow his momentum, and only after registering one of the overgrown roadside signs does he veer off towards any kind of destination. It was a miracle he could even read the advertisement – big, handpainted letters reading: “FARM & WELDING SUPPLY – CO-OP NEXT EXIT”.

Sure, medical suppliers had the good stuff, but out in bumfuck nowhere a criminal has to make do. Junkrat winds down the broken, dangerous road and practically ends his journey with a broken everything when he “parks” in front of the establishment. He looks to be the only one here, which is all well and good. Junkrat takes a moment to make sure his quickly hashed together disguise is still mostly intact. He’s wearing a skullcap and shades, plus a full length jacket and gloves. There’s not much in a pinch he can do about the troublesome peg he’s sporting, but it’s an in and out job and his wanted poster only shows the moneymaker, so who gives a rat’s ass really? He runs his tongue over his teeth, pats the pistol in his waistband, pulls up his gloves and heads into the store with a jingle.

The place smells of dander, feed and gasoline, which frankly makes him feel more at home than anything else. It’s marked off in sections, thankfully with a secondary section specialized for welding – something uncommon for a typical co-op but practically a miracle for the ‘Rat. Not to mention their hobbled together needs were perfectly suited here. Grease, gas and other shit for the bike, some pest traps (assuming ‘Hog needs more recovery time) and provisions, a suspicious amount of kitty litter and fertilizer, a cartful of Riptire bits and bobs, a travel medical kit – actually, two of those – and…. Oxygen. “Lots of oxygen. D’you have medical grade? No? Eh, it’s fine.” Junkrat has slapped down a fistful of bills on the counter, and the cashier is agape.

“Do… You have ID?”

Junkrat slaps two more fistfuls of illegally gained legal tender on the counter, and he watches with some self-satisfaction the awed bob of the cashier’s throat as they realize just how much the bedraggled, gnarly looking wanderer has laid in front of them. “Nope.” He grins, golden teeth glinting.

 

The haul preoccupies Junkrat. As he struggles to load his supplies into the motorcycle’s sidecar, he fails to notice the dark navy van that has pulled into the Co-op. He’s huffing and puffing, chattering to himself and giving himself a pre-emptive pat on the back before he takes off.

“Alright, Junkie, y’ve done it. ‘Hog’s gonna be right as rain, an’ we’ll be off like planned. He’ll probably even say thanks, ‘n you can get out of that doghouse, eh, Junkie? Can’t wait to see his face, pulled this off without even killin’ or stealin’ because subtlety – is my middle name. Doin’ this nice and quiet, like you like, ‘Hog… Right, right, I’m goin’…”

He awkwardly tries to cover the huge amount of goods with a tarp, and stands back for a moment to appraise the situation. Bungee cords are needed here. Junkrat scrambles back into the Co-op to the chagrin of the cashier, who still seems ambivalent about whether they should call the cops or not. However, with a few more bills and a simpler request this time of elastic fastening materials, they seem placated. Junkrat gives his cheeky thanks and returns to his task, finally lashing down the trove of miscellany. He checks the lot again before he leaves: empty. Gassed up and ready to go, Junkrat revs up the motorcycle and eases his way back onto the winding country road. Now with his lifesaving goods in tow, he’s a bit more careful – but just a bit.

 

The path back is mesmerizing. A swirling curtain of golds and greens are fascinating to watch; Junkrat’s drooping eyes twitch open, closed, open and back and forth to stay on target. Even the air rushing past him on the bike is somehow soothing instead of invigorating. It’s just a reminder: the sooner he gets back to Roadhog, the sooner he can rest. Or, if the big man has decided it’s no good to stay put, the sooner he gets to curl up in the sidecar and at the very least close his eyes. This determination, unfortunately, isn’t enough for Junkrat to remember to turn off at the marker signaling their remote cabin. It was so, so easy to miss. “Goddamnit!” Screeching the brakes, Junkrat has to will himself not to blow chunks as he shrieks into the tightest U-Turn of all to make his way back to his missed exit – he swears he hears something shift in the back, and grumbles with a pathetic whine. This could be bad.

 

The bike rumbles down the pathway at last – all bumps, undergrowth, and a nauseous rat. He’s still a few minutes out from the cabin, but he has to take a stop. Check the goods, check himself. When he turns off the bike, he expects the world to return to quiet. That unique birdsong, the rustling of the trees. Instead, he hears an engine. One that’s not his.

Junkrat sits straight up on the bike, immediately responding with a heartbeat that’s about ready to rattle around his entire ribcage. The mystery engine has cut off quickly enough that – did he imagine things? What was that? His head swivels, hand reaching for his gun. Junkrat steps off the bike and his boot scrunches against the rough gravel road. He’s so damn close to the cabin, but his vision has begun to spin. No, no – Junkrat – there’s no one. The pinpoints, those laser sights. You’re so close to the cabin, so close. His vision darts to the canopy and down to the underbrush. Back and forth, zigzagging for movement. There’s some kind of finch nearby. He looks up the road, which crooks out of sight. Nothing at all. Sucking in a cool breath, Junkrat feels his fingers quaking. To settle himself, he pulls the gun out of his waistband and wraps his undamaged hand around it. Just a quick check, and he would be back on the road. His metal hand rises up to check the tarp, make sure the cords are still secured and that he hasn’t lost anything in the trip, the quick turn. He pats over the whole thing, tries to lift the blue covering in various spots, runs his hand down the sidecar to check for scuffs. Roadhog would kill him if he’d hurt his bike, after all, and – “Oh, shit.”

Metal fingers pluck something from the underside of the sidecar. As he examines it, Junkrat feels something akin to all of the blood drain from his body. “Oh, _shit_.” 

A sting, a bugbite in this godforsaken woods, pierces the back of his neck. His arms and legs jellify and Junkrat’s eyes roll up into his head as the man collapses into a broken heap of limbs on the dirt ground. He hates falling asleep. Among the static, a black silhouette with a smoky voice appears like death in what remains of his vision; he fades into darkness.

“Go to sleep, Jamison.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat wakes up and meets his captor, one bounty hunting badass we know as Ana Amari. How does he handle this immediate situation? If you guessed "not very well", you are.... Well, you'll see.

There’s a warm haze in this gutted-out family van. The loud snores, shrieks and mutterances of the man buckled into the back seat are accompanied by the tinny sounds of a blown-out radio and the attempts of climate control to keep both passengers – willing, or unwilling – at least somewhat comfortable. Sturdy, unmarked boxes surround the one back seat (installed clearly for a singular purpose). They’ve been freshly locked and tidied, rat-proofed.

 

Junkrat wakes up with a start as the heavy van hits a pothole on the broken road. Instantly, he snaps into full, twitchy consciousness. His muscles tense, arms and legs leaping into action… and going nowhere. He strains and blinks the sleep out of his eyes (his mouth is agape like a fish out of water). Someone’s bound the man by his wrists and – well, he has no other ankle to speak of, so he’s made acutely aware that his peg has been removed. It itches, it hurts. Plain old silvery duct tape (Et tu, duct tape?) in thick, impenetrable layers coat his thin wrists, but the rat always has a plan of escape.

 

Immediately he goes to work with his teeth. The plight of Roadhog is re-entering his brain as he’s becoming more desperate, growling and nipping, tearing away with his uneven, sharp teeth. Roadhog always said he had a face full of X-Acto knives, and that was one of Junkrat’s favorite compliments. Every part of his masterfully crafted body was a tool of destruction and usefulness. Roadhog had not replied when Junkrat had responded with this sentiment. Now, his knife-teeth were proving the Junker right. At the first tear of the tape, however, a voice filters from the front of the van.

 

“Ah, you’re awake.”

 

It’s as though he hadn’t considered until now that someone would have to be _driving_ the car who _wasn’t_ Roadhog. Junkrat nearly shoots out of his shorts, ripping up a piece of the tape as he goes with a screech. He scrabbles. His wrists rub together, cricket-like, and he tilts and strains his head to get a closer look at his kidnapper. There’s a cloaked head, an arm resting on the right armrest, and just a glimpse of silver hair and what looks to be an eyepatch visible in the rear-view mirror. The arm raises. An elegant gesture of the hand points vaguely to his restraints.

 

“You were out much longer than I expected! You must have been tired. Oh, and don’t bother with the duct tape – there are law enforcement-grade cord restraints under there. I just wanted to mess with you.”

 

Junkrat’s eyes are bugged out, nearly popping from his skull. He stutters, then his mouth twists down into an exaggerated frown as he looks down at the progress he’s made. A glowing metallic restraint is visible underneath. Goddamnit!

 

“Oi! The fuck, lady?” Is all that he can conjure, and he squirms around in his seat. Now he has a chance to look around in earnest. He’s buckled – honest to God buckled in – to this rickety old SUV that would have looked family-friendly if not for the entirety of its original interior having been ripped out. He’s not actually restrained past his chest and lap belt, wrists and the lack of his leg. Wait a second–

 

“Where’d you put my goddamn leg?” He spits, and is met with a snap of fingers from his kidnapper.

 

“Language!” She fires back. Junkrat blinks - stymied for just a moment. His captor laughs. Who the hell? His mouth is still wide open, but before he can make any more angry mouth sounds she’s pulling up the mechanical prosthetic from the passenger seat by the tip if its ‘foot’. She’s buckled the damn thing in, too.

 

“You’ll get this back when we arrive. You and your friend have a very impressive bounty, but I’d hate to have to deal with you both at once. I’ll pick him up later.”

 

She lowers his peg back down, and the quirk of her smile is visible in the rear view mirror. It’s curved devilishly at the edges – spread just enough to crinkle the weathered skin around her mouth. In the back seat, there is a taut moment of silence. Fear registers behind Junkrat’s eyes.

 

The year after finding the treasure, the Junker had been reduced to prey. The time he had to relish his prize was cut dramatically short by his big mouth: in the desperate outback, news travels quickly and with deadly repercussions when it came to profitable intrigue. Running, worming into broken down and abandoned wastes and shells of buildings – rich and starving. A manic lack of self-preservation nearly got him killed after a few near throat-slashings from supposed confidantes. And then, there was Roadhog. In the moment, his heart sinks. How long had they been driving? Did she take the goods keeping ‘Hog alive?

 

There’s uncertainty now in the van. Junkrat dips his head down, and now his eyes are darting back and forth. From his restraints, to the window, to the cloak-clad figure in the driver’s seat. He wanders, focuses, lets his eyes drift. His “train” of thought is more like a series of handcarts driven by multiple Junkrats, run from a loosely organized kiosk in the middle of nowhere manned by a few more Junkrats. There are no tracks.

 

The plan is –

 

Junkrat thrashes against his restraints, kicking and shrieking in the most unholy tone known to anyone but Roadhog. He’s certain he hears his captor swear – something in Arabic, maybe? – and try to maintain her composure as all two meters of young, screeching man throws himself around with wild abandon. She’s done something to the seatbelt – so it’s not a simple mechanism after all – but he still tries to get out of it. And boy, does he try. Junkrat is slipping, sliding, scooching down, down, down. His knee is practically touching the backside of his kidnapper’s seat, his ass fully out of his own seat cushion and bound arms tucked into the deep cavity below his ribs to try and escape.

 

“I _will_ shoot you, Jamison Fawkes!” The voice is surprisingly matter of fact, but it’s lost under the huffing and puffing from the soon-to-be escapee, whose head was now twisted at a bizarre angle to try and slip under the belt.

 

“YOU CAN’T STOP ME!” He roars.

 

A sigh from the captor, accompanying the “thump” of a body against the floor. The realization that Junkrat was – somehow – slipping out of his primary bond is becoming a reality for the bounty hunter, and she slows the car to keep control. The reports had obviously been true, but dealing with this wild young man (who should have still been at least a _bit_ more sedated) was a bit more than what she’d planned for. There’s a turn coming up -- before she can grasp her wrist launcher or even react properly beyond an annoyed sigh, he’s popped open the side door. It was like the man had no bones, getting out so quickly. The door slides open – a cheery screaming laugh starts loud and brash from inside the van, and quickly turns into an “OOF! Aaaahh!” as the volume quickly recedes in the distance. The fool has jumped out of the car, legless and still bound at the wrist.

 

Ana Amari, bounty hunter and responsible driver that she is, lights up her blinker and pulls over to the side of the road.

 

“Ahh… The joy of having children.” She mutters. Thin, gloved fingers tap on the steering wheel before sliding off to extract the keys from the ignition. Good old feeling of metal turning in a mechanism – don’t get that too much from these modern hovercars. Hesitating only for a moment, she takes a quick breath in and looks out the windows to casually check for vehicles.

 

The boys had driven so far away from the city that she’d only made it about an hour in the opposite direction. Thickly wooded roads, mountains, and a blanket of smoke from wildfires were her only company besides the bedraggled person who she was sure was in some need of at least moderate medical attention at this point. It was a long drive. The least he could do was behave.

 

She opens her door, taking in a hazy breath of air, squinting with her one good eye down the length of the road. A man-shaped lump on the mossy ground near the asphalt gives her relief (he hadn’t toppled down the mountain), and he appeared to have been knocked unconscious as a result of his tumultuous tumble. Her boots crunch against the rough terrain, one of the view sounds save for the rustling of branches next to the country road.

 

 As she approaches, she assesses the damage. He’s bent strangely (whether that’s due to an injury or the pre-existing condition of being Junkrat, she’s unsure), and motionless. But, as she’s leaning down, she’s met with something sharp against her face.

 

He’s wounded, but not down for the count. The prosthetic that attached just above the man’s elbow has been busted, twisted on impact – Ana can’t imagine that a swift removal was anything but painful. He’d landed on it, rolled, extracted it and pulled out of the cuffs. From somewhere (the interior of his arm, perhaps?), he’s procured a wicked blade. Directionless, maybe, but she’d give him credit for cleverness and clout. In the meantime, Ana did not have time for this. He looked at her from below, sitting up and grasping at her coat. Eyes ablaze, still giddy but with some fearsomeness flashing fire into those orange eyes.

 

“Alright, ya cunt—“

 

“Watch your mouth.” In a split instant, the bounty hunter has Junkrat in tears – his arm about to snap in half, and a boot directly on his bobbing Adam’s apple. How she did it, he can’t begin to fathom. Her coat settles around her.

 

“Al-right, alright,” Junkrat’s voice is now a squeak. He’s beginning to feel a sharp pain in his collarbone, anyway.

 

“How do you feel? Anything broken?” She asks. Junkrat squints, looks up at her with a nasty stinkeye. Are you kidding?

 

The woman above him is much older than he had expected – late fifties, early sixties, probably. Her dark complexion is obscured by a hood and her full coat. To his continued discontent she looks like a bloody reaper, all cloaked and eclipsing the sun from his prone angle, casting visible rays around her with the amount of smoke in the air. Under one of her eyes is a small tattoo, the other covered by the patch he saw in the mirror. Distinguished, capable, and not at all the picture of one of the many hunters who had stalked him over the years. As he feels the boot lift from his throat, Junkrat wheezes. “Who are you?”

 

She hums. “Let’s get you patched up first, Fawkes. Drop _that_ …” She squeezes his arm and the sound of the knife hitting the dirt pleases her enough to release him. “And let’s get back to the van. It’s lunch time anyway. I brought sandwiches.”

 

His wires are now completely fried. Out in the middle of nowhere, without a ride, medical help or the opportunity/ability to hitchhike (see: carjack), he’s helpless. Where the hell is Roadhog? Oh yeah. Dying. The Junker mentally curses himself out, thoughts buzzing in every direction. Might as well think of another brilliant escape plan while he’s getting himself pampered by this crazy old lady. He shrugs (winces, fuck) and clenches his abdomen to try and get up. Blackness.

 

\--

 

“Masā' al-khayr.”

 

“Whuzzat?”

 

“You passed out on the side of the road. Good thing, too, I didn’t have to disinfect a screaming, flailing idiot in the back of my van.”

 

Once again, Junkrat comes to in the comfort of Ana’s ride. The back doors are open, and the breeze is coming through. Junkrat feels… Tingly.

 

“You’re a walking road rash and then some.” Ana explains. “I’ve pulled all of the garbage out of your body. You landed on your prosthetic, rolled around and smashed up your chest and back and your good knee, and broke your right clavicle. I have no idea what you were trying to accomplish.” She shakes her head and tips a bucket over for Junkrat to see – it’s filled with a unique mixture of Junkrat residue and surprisingly large chunks of gravel, rocks, dirt, and even some familiar bits of his prosthetic. Thankfully, his port looks okay. Not that he can feel anything below the neck right now.

 

“Oh, and you’re going to be pretty floppy for a while, but that should be better than feeling me poking around. No more jumping out of moving cars, Jamison.”

 

He looks down. His torso has been completely bandaged up, and he can feel the areas on his face that have been treated, too. She’s written “DON’T MOVE ME” on his right shoulder. Junkrat rolls his head back to rest on the head-rest and groans. “I’m gonna get out of here. I’m not your fuckin’ kid.”

 

To this, the woman laughs – bold and harsh, a sound that makes Junkrat open his eyes in surprise. “Thank the heavens!” She shouts, grasping his chin with her index and thumb. “What a terrible surprise that would be. One is enough, thank you. Though I’d honestly like to see Fareeha put you in your place. What a hoot.” She releases him and titters to herself, pulls off the latex gloves she’s been using to treat him. Her hands are as aged as her face, covered in faded scars and bowed from years of work. She wipes the sweat from her brow, flips her silver braid over a shoulder. It’s hard not to stare at the woman, who looks as though a deep well of stories is lying just under her surface. Maybe it’s the way her eyes glitter and her lips curl up, knowing all and saying nothing. Junkrat doesn’t trust it, not at all.

 

“So… Who are you then?” He squints and floats a nerveless hand to scratch an itch on his chin.

 

“Ah. Just a bounty hunter. Decided to take on the job of tracking you two down when I heard you were abroad. Making up some funds for an operation in Africa. Little chores. You know. Like when you hit up that little boutique in the city? A side-track. Like that.”

 

Subconsciously, he felt his lip twitch. It was no surprise that the Junkers lacked subtlety, but the casual commentary on their path of action was still… Illuminating. He recovers quickly from the slight and puffs out his chest, grinning. A few of his teeth were missing from the fall.

 

“Well, of course you’ve heard of us! Who else but JUNKRAT and ROADHOG would steal the Royal Jewels? The Seven Wonders of the World! The Earth’s atmosphere itself!”

 

“You didn’t do those last two things.” Ana quipped. She tips his head up to inspect his open mouth and shrugs, backing up to leave him be.  
  
“How can you prove we didn’t?”

 

“Fair enough. You’re done, by the way. Let’s get on the road. I want to turn you in, cash out and go back for Mr. Rutledge before he either runs off or dies, or more likely runs off _and_ dies. I figured your solo supply run had to do with his injuries, yes?”

 

“Uhh –“

 

“Rhetorical question, Jamison. Look, I’d rather he be alive, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Wait.”

 

While they were talking, Ana had already closed the van’s doors and had made her way to the driver’s seat. She stops with her hand hovering above the gear shift, eyebrows quirked at the bandaged man behind her. She can see the cogs turning in his brain, perplexed expression dancing across his elastic features. Junkrat is sorting, trying to send his thoughts in the correct direction. Helping Roadhog was his most important objective. There was no way to do that without a ride, without – without this bounty hunter putting him back together, at least for now. Without her unmemorable navy van, without an arm and a leg, and with his and his partner’s faces plastered all over the city…

 

“You’re gonna fix me up. I’m gonna escape. And Roadie and I are gonna blow this place all the way to Hawaii! Where we’re going to vacation next, and I’m going to steal a sea turtle.” Junkrat announced, gesturing flamboyantly but still loosely with his still-numb fingers. “I’m just coming along for a little ride, you hear me? Roadhog’ll be fine.”

 

The van starts up with a thick, heavy purr. She turns half-way around to look into Junkrat’s eyes. They’re wide, proud, scheming. As she catches his attention and holds it, though, he’s the first to break away. His lip quivers, he releases a small click as he settles – unable to keep quiet or still for any period of time. Now conscious and slowly gaining feeling in his aching, battered body, the man began to realize that this was going to be a long and torturous roadtrip.

 

“Jamison?”  
  
“It’s Junk-rat. Junkrat, ya nasty cunt. You’re not my mum.”

 

Ana tossed a cellophane-wrapped sandwich from the console into the back of the car, somewhere the man could reach it. She reached back into the console and produced a thin syringe filled with fluorescent blue liquid, which she displayed before clicking it firmly onto an attachment on her wrist.

 

“Call me that again, and I’ll drop you. It’s ‘Shrike’, or ‘Ma’am’. Have a sandwich, Jamie. You’re cranky.”

 

Thirty minutes later, by no coincidence, Junkrat was fed and up for an afternoon nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments!! Glad to get this chapter out sooner than a million years later, and hoping to expedite the next one! Lots of love!
> 
> (reminder that i'm overgosh.tumblr.com. Wahoo!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief interlude: A conversation between Junkrat and Amari.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a lot of momentum writing chapter 3, and decided that chapter 4 could be shorter and rolled into the space between the next bigger action beat! Hope you enjoy, as always ;u; - Jinjo

“So, Junkrat.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Junkertown, that’s where you’re from, right?”

 

“I ain’t tellin’ you anything.”

 

It’s actually a hilarious statement, given that Junkrat is physically unable to shut up. He’s mostly been concocting plans and muttering to himself quietly – even if Ana were to overhear his words, they don’t make much sense. Sentence fragments peppered with Junker-isms and trilling into the occasional giggle here and there. Ana rolls her eye and taps on the steering wheel, giving him a strong raise of the eyebrow before continuing on. A handwave of pure drama follows, which catches Junkrat’s eye.

 

“Oh, really? Well, the media’s told me plenty! Two young men from the wastelands of Australia, Jamison “Junkrat” Fawkes and Mako “Roadhog” Rutledge. Very talented, I might add. Did you head out on your international shoplifting spree to prove a point, or because you’d already pillaged everything in your hometown?”

 

Junkrat opens his mouth in a putrid scowl, raising his index finger right up in the air at her accusation. “Ex-cuse me! We’re better than all those Junkertown blokes. We’ve got _class_. Just ‘cos I grew up there n’ Roadie did his due diligence don’t mean the Lordie Lords and Queenie Queens ain’t gonna THROW you on out, though! We’ve got NOTHIN’ to prove! We’re famous, see! Loaded from toe to tooth, so you can get stuffed!”

 

Ana purrs now, tapping her chin. He can see her good eye now as she turns her cheek to him, expression glittering. “Oh, no, sweetheart, I understand. I mean, look at the bounty you’ve racked up! Too bad there’s a bigger reward for a matching set. I bet you’re unstoppable together.”

 

To this, Junkrat burst into laughter. He slapped the air where his mechanical knee should be and waggled his fingers. “Ohhh, you bet. Roadie ‘n me are…” He locked his fingers together. “Tight.”

 

A pregnant pause. Ana opens her mouth to inquire: “Are you two—“

 

“Haha! You should have seen him go when we went to snag some o’ them Iranian Crown Jewels. Necklaces ‘round both wrists, usin’ the flagon as a club. Hoo boy.” He leans in as close as he can. “The secret to a good heist is pizzazz. If ya razzle an’ dazzle ‘em, yer bound to make a good, clean get-away. More explosions, the better. Plus, then everyone knows who did it!”

 

Ana purses her lips. “Ah.”

 

He goes on to rattle off a few more crimes as she sits with her mouth pressed into a thin line.  She could egg him on, get a prosecutor’s wet dream’s worth of confessions and detailed (yet surely embellished) descriptions of criminal activities. Only the one responsible would detail the strange yet specific bits of graffiti Junkrat left behind, like (evidently) a small cartoon penis hastily scribbled on the bottom of one of the carved cherubic figures making up the decorative architecture in Buckingham Palace. How did these two fools do it?

 

“You know, sounds like you two are either inconceivably lucky, or you’re _very_ good at what you do.”

 

“Well, thank you, Ma’am,” Junkrat preens, sliding a greasy hand through his tangled hair and getting caught in it. “I’ve got that _treasure_ touch! Also, I’ve got a memory like a steel trap.” He taps his temple when he’s finally able to extract his hand from the bird’s nest on top of his head. “I can wiggle in and out of any place with nooks n’ crannies. I can sniff out the goods, avoid all the traps, ‘n get right out of there! Anything else goes with brute force from me ‘n Hog. ‘S why they call me Junkrat.”

 

“So you’ve had the name since Junkertown, or before?”

 

He begins to speak and suddenly trails off, his eyes unfocusing. For a moment, his giddy smile fades, sinks – until his everpresent teeth disappear behind lips. The corner of his mouth twitches.

 

The name has followed him as long as he can remember. There are only brief flashes of life before the wasteland. Pastel shorts, a spinning ceiling fan. The rusty orange painted room cluttered with towering plastic toys. The yard, a very fat toad visitor. Tinny noises, alarm bells, being lifted off the ground and holding on “like a little koala”. Mum. That’s all.

 

Afterwards, everything is yellow and orange, dust and gasoline. He’s chasing down feral cats, tying firecrackers to their tails and watching the sparks. On burn-duty for the mass amounts of omnic rubble and garbage that’s accumulated from the rough-and-tumble crowd who would eventually form the wasteland city known as Junkertown, and its equally brutal companion cities. Surviving, shaped in his youth by the actions of those before him. He’s part of a generation of children who didn’t have a chance. Born blessedly at the end of the omnic crisis, at the beginning of the end of the world. The forever displaced, forever forgotten – they have to stay put, of course, or find themselves outcasts in society on the other side of their own country. The blast radius is destructive and isolating; only the richest and luckiest depart. Sydney sends its best wishes; aid peters out as the radioactive zone is left to its own devices. Whether it’s a blessing or a tragedy, Jamison takes to the post-apocalyptic wastes well. The gangly, bleached-blonde runt of a boy loves to watch the world burn.

 

In the rubble are treasures to be had, mixed with plenty of explosives from the ALF conflict and the Omnic Crisis. He accompanies them, often to his older companions’ chagrin and sometimes to their amusement.

 

_“Heaps of mines in there,”_

_“Get the boy. Fawkes’ kid.”_

_“You wanna be worth somethin’, little rat? Climb around in there and grab us the central power cores from those ‘bots in that there disposal yard.”_

_“Poor bastard’ll never make it.”_

_“He’s back! Told you he’d be right. You’ll be a useful little junker rat after all, aren’t ya?”_

 

That _challenge_ , the sense of _victory_ , that feeling of _recognition_. Skittering through lifeless shells, pawing undetonated devices and sliding breathlessly out of the pile with an arm full of cores and feeling like he was _someone_. At barely ten years old, it’s one of Junkrat’s most vivid memories.

 

“Junkrat, you’re dissociating.” Ana’s snapping her fingers. Junkrat’s eyes shimmy back into position, and he scratches at his neck with his good hand.

 

“Wot?”

 

“You should really take a while to rest, habibi,” Ana remarks, clicking her tongue. “Before Roadhog, did you live in the outback your whole life? You’re… Twenty-five, correct?”

 

“The prime of me life, you mean! Suuure. I did my time in the bush. It’s not all trash fires ‘n six eyed kangaroos out there, ya know. We’ve got a _fine_ society. Well, used to, ‘til the _Queen_ plopped her fat arse down on the throne ‘n told us to fuck off.” Junkrat repositions his thigh over his other leg and reclines.

 

She hums now, nodding her head as though in agreement with him. “Ah. Difficult.”

 

“Oi, don’t pretend like you know anythin’,” Junkrat snaps, albeit lazily. His head is tipping back in the chair, searching for room to recline even further or somehow contort into a comfortable position in the single car seat. Ana simply shrugs. She lowers her voice to a deep lull and croons.

 

“Power struggles, my dear, I’m familiar with. Living your life with utmost passion. Feeling used and unappreciated, questioned at every turn and undermined until you’re tossed out on your rear on the hottest day of summer without water. When they decide they don’t need you, nothing you’ve ever done to get as far as you have matters. You want to make an impact on the world. Sometimes your fate reveals itself too late – when the world has been against you for so long, having a fresh restart is a fair solution, I think.” Her gaze flashes. She keeps a close eye on him as he stares back at her, dumbfounded. 

 

His mouth opens. It closes. He opens it again, snaps it shut with a “hmph.” Finally, he’s able to respond. “You’re a nasty crone and you’re tryin’ to get into my head. Won’t work though. Mind like a steel trap.” He waves his hand vaguely and uses the crook of his elbow to cover his eyes, dramatically sprawled across the seat in some kind of ‘restful’ position. Ana can’t help but laugh.

 

“Fair enough. You’ve outsmarted me again. Must be why you’re the one taking me in to collect on a fat bounty and I’m the one who’s been imprisoned by an old woman.”

 

Her comment is met by a series of shrieks and the creaking and squeaking of Junkrat’s chair. She cranks the radio up, half static and half pop tunes, to drown him out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another ingenious escape.

Groggy and hardly reinvigorated, Junkrat comes to a slow awakening as the van’s inertia pulls him forward in his seat. His arm swings forward with the momentum and (of course) immediately causes him a pang of soreness throughout his entire body. He goes to stretch and practically screams in pain – right, right. Broken clavicle. Junkrat’s eyes flicker to the words “DON’T MOVE ME”, a cheeky reminder that turns cruel whenever he twitches. Everything else seems stable; ribs bruised and breath wheezy, he’s about as right as rain as he ever is.

He thinks about ‘Hog. Since they drove into the wilderness, it’s been too long for comfort. Unarmed quite literally, Junkrat’s sinking heart threatens to compromise his constantly plotting mind. He scratches at his arm, up and down where the multi-colored bruises are blooming. Presses in, sinks flaky painted nails in, fidgets. Thankfully, the exterior view was filled with hope.

Civilization!

Places to hide, steal from, and thrift away. Rides to hijack, goons to bully, and of course random folks who will roll right over under duress of a good mugging. Scatterings of buildings appear. Inconsistent styles, in various states of disarray. The horizon is dotted with pockmarks from recent conflicts, peppering over top of scars from thirty years ago. Slashes and burns in the land make the perfect aerial squares of farmland a peculiar puzzle to behold; rounded hills hold tribute to the Crisis and to the human spirit in new dwellings and memorials. Blurred billboards sped by: new designs from Aetria are on display, cherries are in season. An omnic is running for office. Junkrat’s eyes rattled together. From glazed to focused, he peered at the signage. Someone’s beaten him to scrapping the sign; a huge slash is drawn across the entire advert, with a thickly painted “X” crossing out the figure on the sign. After it passes, he takes a closer look at their surroundings.

Neighborhoods began to crop up. A seedy suburbia, likely leading to wherever the crone wanted to take him. His pulse raced, realizing that a final destination meant capture. Junkrat begins to chew his nails.

“Junkrat?”

“Eh?”

“Good, you’re not dead. I’m going to pull over for gas. Do you need anything?”

An idea.

“Yeah, I gotta piss. I need m’leg.”

“Mm.”

Ana stops the car while Junkrat lays in wait, eyebrows raising as she makes her way around the front to the side door. Like an answer to a prayer, Junkrat hears that infernal belt click and the side door slides open, making him squint in the light. It was like the Big Man Himself was giving him something back, except it was a nasty old witch who was probably going to get him killed or worse.

“Right! Let’s get this done, then,” Junkrat begins, his bravado returning – before he starts backpedaling. Ana is going in, angling his peg leg and reaching for his knee. “WHOA, WHOA! What do you think you’re doing?”

Ana stops in her tracks. She is still, her eyebrows simply raise. “I have no interest in watching you struggle, fail and curl up into a fetal position like an oversized baby.”

He looks rather disgusted, but experimentally leans over. His abdomen pricks with pain, good arm reaching – testing. It’s going to be a time consuming puzzle. The more time he wasted, the longer Roadhog was alone. The rat drew his hand down the entirety of his face.

“Fine. Get it over with,” he grumbles. All the while, his leg is sticking out dramatically and his back presses against the back of his seat until it lets out a groan of its own.

Ana clears her throat. “You need to stay low. This area was hit hard during the Crisis. Rich built on top of the poor, and the state of things is still a mess. You understand the drift, yes?”

Junkrat isn’t listening, but he flinches when he feels contact. Ana is studying the leg, noticing its simple design. He casts his head away, draws his fingers across his eyes while she slowly positions it into place and reaches up his thigh to fasten it fully. Goddamn embarrassing.

“Junkrat?” She continues. Ana sighs and continues. “I don’t have to tell you it’s dangerous. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

His pale, dusty cheeks have a frustrated tint to them when Ana finishes up, clapping her hands together as though the task was as monumental as fixing an engine.

“Now… Take some of these clothes. You look like your mug shot.”

He obeys. Ana raises her eyebrows again, this time out of curiosity. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment while he pulls on a long hoodie and a sling that he rests his arm in. Ana gives him a pre-filled glove arm to put inside, and he snorts at the ridiculousness of it all. At least this way he’d be less likely to move his shoulder.

“I ain’t puttin’ on this hat.”

“Put it on or shave your head. It’s the least we can do while you can’t hide that peg,” Ana snaps back. She’s not in any mood to fool around. At this point, her toe is tapping – looking back towards the lonely station where she’d pulled over. Time was wasting. Time! Damn it.

“Fine,” Junkrat dons the billed cap. It’s simple, black and displays the word ‘HELIX’ embroidered across the front in official white font. He feels ridiculous, hair sticking out and looking as frazzled as ever under the cap. For Ana, it’s good enough. “Stay close to me,” She reminds him. He’s already scheming, and she knows it. But for once, Ana’s steely gaze looks awash with fatigue. Wearing people out was another specialty of Junkrat’s. The thought is starting to make that familiar wicked grin cut right across his face.

The next steps are a bit of a jittery blur as Ana pulls up to the pump without Junkrat in the back seat. It’s hard to even identify the time of day – dusk, maybe? It’s humid with a wash of grey, nasty in all directions. Junkrat’s dark ochre shirt feels like a neon sign, the sound of springs in his peg alert signals with every step. The man clatters into the station; eyes track him from behind the counter. The pull of his smile is a dead giveaway.

“Oi.” He digs around in the pocket of his hoodie. Junkrat always has tricks up his sleeves. Or, rather, his limbs. Procured from the base of his peg, Junkrat holds onto a small detonator. He flips it over and over in his hand, raising it up to his face so it’s nearly touching his nose. He’s swaggering up to the counter, one-armed but still playing with a terrifying device in one hand.

The attendant blanches.

“I need to get out the back door.” He holds out his palm with three fingers extended to accept a key, and to his inner delight he receives it. “And these pepperoni sticks.”

Without any further ado or explanation, Junkrat pops open the plastic bin next to the quivering attendant and shoves some snacks into his sling. After this, he scoots forward on a shoe, does a quick spin to make sure that his captor isn’t around, to spot any other prying eyes. He gives a little wave, another wiggle, and sprints to the backdoor where he jiggles the key against the doorknob until it practically falls off.

Outside! The con worked. A perfect bluff has Junkrat giggling – no, cackling now, as he inches his way past a rancid dumpster and out of the relative garbage cage that was keeping him trapped. Realistically, his grand escape plan was hardly impressive. The station, central in a parking lot, was out in the open. The back door? Simply in the temporary blind spot of Ana and her van. Junkrat now simply had to keep running in that blind spot until she was gone, and… Bingo. Home free. He drops to a careful, alert stance and in the next moment breaks into a rickety sprint. Peg or no, the bandy fugitive is out of sight.

Ana, of course, knows he’s gone as soon as the gas station door chimes his entry. The echoing laughter that she hears moments later seems a little excessive.

The only problem now is if she’ll find him first, or if any number of roving hunters will. She casually slips back into the driver’s seat and revs the engine. “Idiot.”

-

An hour passes - two hours, three. Like any number of Junkrat’s plans, this one is poorly conceived at best and self-destructive without any redeeming qualities at worst. He’s fidgeting with the bombless detonator in his hand now, peg and foot tapping in turn with each step further down a labyrinth of streets. A mid-sized town, along the artery towards big city freedom. He’d just hop into a car and be on his way. First, though, to get his bearings. Pockets of neighborhoods on cracked old cement roads were wedged between outdoor shopping outlets. The occasional nail salon, liquor store, parched looking and oil-stained grocery store parking lots next to seedy apartment complexes sporting unnaturally green lawns.

He was sweltering under his new clothes, deciding finally to shed some layers - despite Ana’s stern warning. The thought of her pinged off of the towers in his mind for a moment before he dismissed them. His kidnapper was irrelevant now. Even so, he slinked along side roads. It seemed like years ago that he and Roadhog had busted into the bank and the boutique, but their faces were still fresh. The media could squeeze a few more days out of their heist before the public forgot their iconic names and faces, crimes fading from the front pages of local magazines. Junkrat couldn’t wait that long.

The thought of it chilled him in the heat. Junkrat uses the main drag’s palm tree studded median as a compass towards the heart of the town, walking, walking. Walking. It’s truly evening now. The sky melts from a hazy french grey to dark orange and then sinks into darkness. Exhaustion combined with the thick oppression of balminess drag him down. After every step of Junkrat’s boot, the foot of his peg stutters across the ground. A familiar purr drifts closer. The purr of an engine.

Junkrat’s body reacted before his brain, spine jolting straight and immediately causing his fresh injuries to cry out. He glanced at the sliver of a van, blocks away, and immediately twisted on his peg to find an escape route. Lawns were bare, patchy, prickly and without cover. Their fences low, chain link or with wide slats - not enough. No sheds in sight behind the single story homes with aged veneers. Without a clear direction, he simply rushes out of the view of the van - over a fence, into the backyard. In front of his eyes was salvation - at least for the time-being. A boat. Still searing to the touch and covered with a bright blue tarp. Without another thought, he rips up the corner of the covering and hops inside.

Stifling air cast with blue makes the space feel like some kind of otherworldly shuttle. A dark and stifling bunker that burns. It’s been a while since the rat has been trapped like this, and even longer since he’s been alone.

Nothing can alert him from the outside. Thin breaths, and the occasional tense shuffling of his own body under the tarp in the small speedboat, are his only company. Has the van returned? Did he see the van at all, or was it a hallucination, the result of exhaustion and haziness from his battered body? 

He smells of dirt and roasting meat. With a grim, tinny laugh, Junkrat procures the last of his pilfered gas station sticks out of his sling and holds it in front of him. He just stares at it. After a while, his jaw clenches, adam’s apple bobs. He curls in on himself. Uncharacteristically, he is still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh goodness, this one took a while. I'm trying not to get caught up about chapter length (and am increasingly self-conscious about my writing by the day, aaah!) so... I hope you guys enjoy! Thanks for sticking with me ;a; i promise I have A PLAN!
> 
> And not a Junkrat plan.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat keeps running away... Something's gotta give.

As the sickly blue tint of Junkrat’s cave fades to midnight, he begins to hear voices.

“Eh. That ain’t good,” Junkrat announces to himself, and digs a finger into his ear. To his chagrin, the voices become more clear. They’re certainly not the crone. Younger voices, conversation chiming in the distance. He tries to recollect the yard he’s sought refuge in. There should be a fence, so escaping from the boat should be no issue at all so long as he’s subtle. Junkrat is always subtle.

Fingers reach out under the lip of the tarp and pull up, letting in the warm but thankfully fresh air into an otherwise stagnant hiding spot. Junkrat has to stop himself from gasping for breath as he peeks out. The voices are clear now, but he sees nothing. Thankfully the fence obscures him from the street. All clear - all free. A thin chest raises and releases a hard sigh of relief, and spider-like, Junkrat extracts himself from his godsend. “S.S. Boom.” Junkrat christened the old boat.

Bearings, bearings, get your bearings. An owlish swivel of the head leaves Junkrat a bit turned around. He vaguely remembers where he’d come from, but in the quiet evening there isn’t any traffic to follow back to the main road. Perhaps the opposite direction of the chatting youths would suffice. It would likely be best for his survival, as well. Junkrat nods to himself after consulting his inner thoughts, and goes to hop the fence in the direction he came from. As awkward as ever, Junkrat fails to stick the landing.

“What was that?” One of the voices pipes up.

Time to go.

There’s no telling if the group is hostile; surely a group of people coming back from a party, or taking a nightly stroll. Not a patrol, not a pack of hoodlums, and certainly nothing dangerous for one inconspicuous loner roaming the streets. The trek from the station has felt like consecutive days, rather than the course of one, and Junkrat is haggard. His broken collarbone throbs, bruised squeezing at his torso every time he breathes in. If he can just get to a safe place, he can rest.

‘Hog wouldn’t mind, would he? Let the younger man nap off some of his broken bones, get back his vim and vigor.

No. If his bodyguard was in his place, he’d run himself into the ground before letting Junkrat go. Junkrat feels a twinge in his chest. And moreover, he feels the hairs bristling on the back of his neck.

His pace increases, jack-rabbit heart threatening to pick up speed to his regular manic pace. Junkrat is resilient, but not in a state to perform any sort of acrobatics. He’s rushing, hobbling along, mind working a mile a minute trying to sort out directions and filter necessary red alerts - but every sense was blaring “DANGER”. And it wasn’t in his head. Street lights are spotlights, the window drapes of these suburban houses hiding rifles primed for the shot. Just when Junkrat thinks he’s spotted the main road, a figure appears from around the corner a couple of blocks away. He veers back out of sight, cutting through an unlit alley. Eyes glitter in the darkness, desperate. Junkrat breathes through his nose to calm shaking breaths and emerges on the next street over. No shadowy figures here. Back to the route.

He heads forward once more - or what he thinks is forward. Turning down another street to avoid the bogey he’d spotted, swiveling his head with each yard he progresses. Murmuring starts to play in his ears like radio static. Junkrat freezes. Real noises? Yes. He shuffles forward, uncertain, and is met at the corner by a clear, cutting drawl.

“You lost, friend?”

Not one, but two humanoid silhouettes stand just outside of the glowing halo of a street light. One compact and short, the other a solid wall of a figure - obscured in shadow save for the backlit reflections of their cold optics shining back at him in the night. Junkrat is trapped in their animalistic gaze, pulse pumping behind his ears as he realizes he’s been hunted. The first figure (the large one) speaks again, and this time Junkrat hears the electric feedback filtering through its speech.

“I said, you lost?”

It takes a second more for Junkrat to sense the presence of even more numbers - maybe human, maybe omnic - around him. Each a block away, waiting. Two, or three of them. Catching glimpses of the encroaching figures, omnics of various shapes and sizes. Less polished, somehow, than the ilk he’d encountered among Los Muertos. An air of depravity surrounded them. Night stalkers. As tight as his jaw is, Junkrat puts on the same old smile. He’s gotten out of scraps with scraps before. This group was just organized, and they had the jump on him. This time. He loosens his pose and tries to play along.

“Ain’t got no place to stay tonight, friends! Got a bit turned around at the, ah, gas station.” He thrusts his thumb over her shoulder, having no idea at this point the direction of the aforementioned station. “Been couch hoppin’ for months now, had to ditch the ol’ cruiser when she broke down. Got nothin’ but this pepperoni stick, y’see?”

His final scrounged snack. He waves it in front of him, as though to say ‘look, nothing worth stealing here!’. Junkrat figures omnics have no use for food anyway. No use for him, either. He’s basically a pepperoni stick himself. He gives the two in front of him a careless shrug.

Both of the omnics look at each other, and then back at him. There’s a soft hum as the talker considers. “It’s a shame that your bike broke down. I guess that means you’re alone, huh? That’s too bad.”

Junkrat puffs up his chest. “That’s right! I -- wait.” The bike. He hadn’t mentioned a bike. Horror washes over him like a riptide; he twists his neck to spot optics in the dark advancing, moving forward at a casual pace. With their many-eyed faceplates, their numbers begin to blend together. Now. Now is the time for adrenaline, and Junkrat’s gut is lead.

He runs. 

It’s been all he can do, all he knows how to do on his own. There is no end, he refuses for there to be an end. So long as ‘Hog is out there, so long as he can run.

The gentle ambience of a suburban night bursts into a cacophony of mechanical clashing. The short omnic seems to rev up like an engine, fans whirring to life and core bursting with hot flame. It illuminates their chasse, covered in rivets and what appeared to be - yes, actual jets. Its array flickers orange and red as the large omnic - now lit dimly from its companion - stays perfectly still. It’s a model Junkrat hasn’t seen before, by virtue of being a hodgepodge of older socialization android models pieced together on top of a war machine - all covered by a slick, tailored 2-piece suit.

The rest of the omnics have made chase. Some clank noisily against the ground, while others’ footsteps are as light and effortless as air. There was no time to parse the mods on each member of the group: Junkrat could barely sprint and think.

Instead, Junkrat focuses in on the burning omnic. It’s build for speed - short bursts of it. Looks like it’s modded with plenty of found stuff; it’s like a drag car. Any moment now, it should catch up. He hadn’t an impressive head start. He looks behind him only for a split second and his fears are realized with pinpoint accuracy. Spitting distance. Junkrat wheezes, looks for a place to turn off. If it was built for acceleration and top speed… Maybe he could lose it.

An alleyway! All of the junker’s strength pours into his peg, which strains on its springs and sends him bounding to the right on a dime. Junkrat careens into the darkness, jumping over trash cans that he topples with his peg. There’s a crack, and the ringing echoes through Junkrat’s skull. An exploding slug bursts. Shattering the surface of the wall next to Junkrat’s head, spiderwebbing plaster, wood and even cement. 

So, Junkrat. They’re shooting now. That’s right. He recollects: Jamison Fawkes, wanted dead or alive. Junkrat swallows at the sharp lump in his throat and looks for salvation. Hot orange light and the putrid smell of roasting garbage rush into his senses.

More shots, this time from the burning omnic, scatter against the adjacent walls of the homes in the alley. In the commotion, the house on Junkrat’s right flickers to life. Lights turn on, there are shouts coming from its interior. The leftmost house remains silent and dark.

Junkrat takes this as a sign. Weaving and practically hyperventilating from the rotten, scalding air and shrapnel around him, he scans the exterior for an entrance point. A thin basement window almost escapes his view. It’s small… Perhaps accommodating enough for his skinny hips, and not for his bulky assailants. It’s his only option: his window of life and death is rapidly closing, after all.

Without another thought the junker stomps through the window with his peg and drops to his belly. A jet of flame passes by where he head was a second later. “Fuck the crone for takin’ m’ arm,” the man whispers, bashing his organic hand through the rest of the frame to clear out the glass. The pain is excruciating, and it would only get worse. He crawled into the basement, toppling down onto the starkly cold surface of a clothes dryer. A trail of blood drags behind. Zigzagging, slipping down the white surface of the appliance as Junkrat scrambles onto the floor.

The basement is a simple cement space, pitch black save for the firelight outside. Laundry equipment and a couple of baskets laden with dirty clothes sit under the window, while the walls are framed with wooden shelves and neat plastic containers of junk. The flickering heat from outside isn’t helping the rat’s swimming vision, nor is the tinny sound of voices helping his psyche. Junkrat heaves wheezing breaths, feeling damp blood dripping from his knuckles and something unpleasant near his shoulderblade that he would deal with later. He lurches towards the opposite side of the room, hands on the knob of the basement door. It’s locked from the outside.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

Hot tears, a chemical reaction of pain and frustration, welled. The rat spun around, spotting the dark silhouettes of mechanical feet beginning to appear in the frame of the window.

“You wanna go in an’ grab him?” An inhumanly deep omnic asked.

“No.” It was the same voice from before: the leader. “It’ll take too long. Cops’ll be here soon.”

Oddly enough, the thought made Junkrat’s heart leap. He never thought he’d be in a position to seek imprisonment, but it beat being manhandled and/or slowly murdered by robots. Plus, ‘Hog could easily break him out. He shook the tears out of his eyes and rushed back towards the window, hoping to find a blindspot to outlast the omnics. If anything, he could definitely flee from the cops. That was practically his specialty. Other than explosives, which is was tragically short on these days.

“Ox, smoke him out.”

Uh oh.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Yellow blooms from outside, followed by ashy greyness. Smoke billows, pours through the window. Junkrat is captive, quaking now, knuckles white and red and screaming. “You motherfucking cunts!”

He shrieks. A spray of bullets passes through the window in warning, and Junkrat scrambles away before turning to pure defensive mode. Muttering to himself, talking a mile a minute, in full overdrive. Laundry basket - dirty laundry. Washer. He pries open the door, tosses in a few shirts, slams it shut and presses “Go”. All he has to do is live just a bit longer than anyone expects. As usual.

Soaked shirts are removed as soon as the rinse cycle activates; Junkrat wraps one tight around his head, ties it off with his hand and teeth. Sweat, blood and soapy water pour down his front. Junkrat makes a break for the door, managing to get one solid kick in before a few more shots are fired through the window. He’s too exhausted, too unbalanced to break through. He might end up filled with lead or smoke from his heavy breathing. Junkrat retreats, squeezes himself as close to the floor as he can as the fumes rise to the ceiling, thick and toxic. He curls in on himself among the shelving. To his right is a box of stored camping supplies, which he considers for only a moment before at least prying at the latch to scrounge for a swiss army knife - a corkscrew, a marshmallow roasting stick - anything. He manages to find a camping knife and clutches it to his chest. His plan has shifted at least ten times in the past five minutes. The current iteration: wait as long as he can. Before he gives up the ghost, scramble out and start swinging. Run. Win.

But he’s already starting to get woozy. Coughing fits rattle his lungs. When he wheezes, he sounds like Roadhog. Now’s as good a time as ever. Dizzy, nauseous and fading, the junker reaches out to climb back onto the blood-slicked dryer when the bursts of smoke cease. There’s shouting from outside, red and blue lights, familiar sirens. And, thankfully, receding footsteps. Save for a pair of large dress shoes still appearing in the window.

“You scared off my crew.” The shoes belong to the leader, who is talking to someone out of sight. Junkrat prepares his knife, his knee slipping on blood. He’s blinded by smoke at his higher vantage. It doesn’t stop him from gearing up to leap through the window and slash some ankles.

Before he gets the chance, the wall of an omnic bends down, her dress pants creasing as they come into view. Through the soot and wavering air, perfectly round optics stare back at him. At the same time he jerks forward, a metal arm shoots through the crawlspace, pincers wrapping around his neck and clamping down. Coughing, sputtering water and inky smoke, Junkrat is dragged through the glass and back into the alleyway. He gasps for the blessing of fresh air but can’t open his throat past a sputter. 

It’s then almost comical, the sight Junkrat sees before him. A busted up alley, his ominous captor holding him in a prone position - crouched like a vulture with a meal. At the end of the alley, blazing lights and a single siren blares. From a single van, a decoy. The cops haven’t arrived yet, but she’s been waiting.

A slim, helmeted figure stands in front of them, a rifle trained between the optics of Junkrat’s new assailant. Junkrat recognizes the van and the coat in an instant. It’s the crone.

Something between panic, irritation, relief, disappointment and elation passes through Junkrat’s simple, smoked-out brain. He coughs weakly, unable to push out words with metal fingers clamped around his neck.

“Let me take my bounty or our truce is off.” The even, calm voice of the omnic is starting to grate on Junkrat.

“Can’t let you do that, B.” Ana responds.

“You don’t even have the pig. And your reward is three times as much as his. I’d sell you without a second thought.”

It boggles his already addled mind. At this point, Junkrat shrieks and struggles from his place on the ground. One of B’s fancy shoes presses down on his broken shoulder, and his volume increases. Ana’s mouth tightens behind her mask, and B continues.

“He’s not worth it. Let us go or I’ll kill both of you.” B states plainly. 

Her optics spin and focus beyond the alley. Signalling the acknowledgement of the real police force on their way. Ana doesn’t need any time to consider. “You’re planning on killing him anyway.” She spits.

In a split second, Ana whips the barrel of the gun to the side. Junkrat’s eyes go wide as he stares down death. The Shrike pulls the trigger. He closes his eyes. A piercing dart, like thes one he’d been hit with before, strikes him just below his collar bone. The puncturing pain makes him suck in, nose and mouth filling with the sopping musk of the dirty shirt. Then, a rush of sensation. The pain in his core starts melting away.

“Junkrat - RUN!” The old woman shouts. B, still using her weight and arm to restrain the junker, couldn’t react quickly enough. Ana unharnessed a slender bottle from her hip and pitched it towards Junkrat, exploding in a cloud of shimmering liquid and mist at the omnic’s feet. It’s at this point that Junkrat realizes he isn’t dying any more. His heart swells, chest puffs up as he finds it inside of himself to twist away from B in his prone position. She’s plenty distracted - the mist has her coughing, electric feedback sending her vocal box into a fritz. B stumbles, steps back painfully, and Junkrat takes his chance. The camping knife he still had hidden under his body comes out in a flash. He’s tired, he’s hungry. He severs the wires running up her legs with a series of manic swipes and thrusts, screeching all the while. Her pantleg is ripped clean off, brackish fluid flowing down her ankles and into her shoe as tries to escape the flailing blade.

“Run, damn you!” Ana repeats. She takes two shots in quick succession that land in the center of B’s chest. They’re not as effective as they might be on organics, but if anything it’s a fine distraction. Junkrat ambles to a standing position, weary but buzzed. A shot hits him in the chest, between a mosaic of reddened glass shrapnel. He looks down and giggles. Tingly. Whatever it is that’s driving him, now -his legs, his heart, his brain - kicks in, and he moves. Towards Ana, then past her and down the road, breathing heavy - half-chuckling to himself, drunk on this strange sensation. “No, not--” Ana begins, but she can’t keep telling Junkrat what to do. There’s a bigger, much angrier issue in the alley now.

“The truce is off. Both of your bodies are mine now.” B groans. She rolls her head back into position and pulls her immense jacket off of her form. She pulls open her dress shirt, gleaming metal covered in weapons underneath. With the size and form fitting of a warmachine, it was best that one didn’t experience the weaponry inside of her core. Time is of the essence. Ana releases a mechanism on the inside of her wrist and pulls, swooping to turn the opposite direction as she fires towards the huge target in front of her. A familiar sleep dart glances off of the omnic, causing her to hum in displeasure as she picks it out of a line on her body.

“You can’t run. We’ll find you, Shrike.” She calls. As Ana makes it to her van, B unlatches a slick attachment from her back and slides it into place over her wrist. It takes a moment to prime, its barrel quickly heating white hot. One burst shatters the asphalt of the road behind her wheels.

The engine roars and takes off. Ana inhales deep breaths, breathing in throw her nose. She carefully adjusts the rear-view mirror, and - yes, there she was. The bounty hunter steps down hard on the gas and quickly catches up to Junkrat, who’s sprinting like a man possessed and leaking blood everywhere. He’s still coughing and quaking from his time in the basement, and is practically unrecognizable as a human being. She rolls down the window.

“GET IN!”

Junkrat shakes his head, throat dry, voice crackling. “The fuck do you care?” He wasn’t following orders any more. Even if it would kill him, he wouldn’t follow her. He didn’t have to. He would die or be free. Ana tenses. Her fingers grip hard around the steering wheel. A roar of plasma crashes behind her, signalling that B’s fully charged. He absolutely would be killed if the omnic bounty hunter caught up to him.

If Ana had left him well alone, she’d have been better off. Her intention was to bring a man to justice, who - now, was going to be brought to justice, dead or alive. She cursed under her breath. Jamison Fawkes was not a good person. Yet, the feeling tugging at her went beyond saving a man from death, and it was not even close to as sentimental as ‘saving a man’s soul’. Whatever was the case, her reasoning now was incredibly pragmatic. She could use this.

“We’re marked. You wanna get out of this? Join me. We’ll find Roadhog and blow those omnics sky high. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch back.”

It was like she’s just spoken a magic spell. The crone, now the enchantress, has spoken Junkrat’s language. Plus, whether or not she’s lying, Junkrat is about to die. Ana hauls open the side door, engine still running, and suddenly hears the charge of B’s cannon. The young man is just standing there in plain sight. “Junkrat!”

He feels a tug at his arm as everything clicks into slow motion. His captor-turned-savior-turned… Captor again? Partner? Has gotten out of the van, using all of her body weight to push him to the ground. From his back he sees her staggered, illuminated by a green light, crumpling where he once stood. Motionless. The junker quakes. Eyes darting back and forth before his body takes over. He rises. Scoops her small frame up with an arm and an overcharged flight instinct strengthened by new will, and deposits her in the van. Junkrat slams the door shut and takes the wheel. It’s been a while since he’s been on the open road. He’s grinning again.


End file.
